Page 7 of Code Name: Hunter
What if I want something real—for once—for a minute—for us?
But I say none of it.
Instead, I pass the flask back.
He doesn’t push. He just nods, like he’s heard the words anyway. Like he knows.
And then we walk into hell, and everything changes.
The heat. The fire. The way Wolfe shouted my name across the alley one last time. I hear it even now—fractured, final.
Monte Carlo, Monaco
Present Day
I open the laptop.
The screen flickers, then lights up with familiar encryption prompts. I enter the passcode—sixteen characters, a mix of obsolete tradecraft slang and the Latin name of a poisonous flower—and the Cerberus dead drop comes online. A shadow network that doesn’t exist. Not officially anyway, and definitely not legal. Not in any registry known to man. But I’ve always been good at finding doors in solid walls.
The file I prep is partial. Redacted. Sanitized like a crime scene wiped with bleach, disinfectant, and a paranoid conscience. There's just enough information to bait their interest, to tickle the instincts of someone like Logan—or Fitz—into leaning closer.
A trail of breadcrumbs, but laced with arsenic. Not enough to burn me, but enough to spark a flame if they’re clever enough to follow it. This isn't just a transmission—it's a test. A single image attached at the end: a cracked mask over an unlit matchstick. The same one I left in Vienna. Let’s see if they remember what it means and how to play the game. And then I’ll know exactly who bites, and how hungry they are.
Bank trails. Alias names. A coded operation name with three locations redacted—just enough to rattle the past without showing its face. Enough truth to open doors—but only the ones I want them to open. Vallois was a thread, not the loom. A distraction, planted and pruned, meant to tangle up the ones too arrogant to question the obvious. They need to see that. Need tounderstand that the spider was never where they were looking. It was always in the silence, in the sanctioned signatures and diplomatic clearances. All the pathways Vallois used to move around the world securely. And now that I’ve pulled back the first layer, I want them just curious enough to dig deeper—and desperate enough to follow the next breadcrumb off the edge of the map.
I wrap the new additional packet in a polymorphic shell, layering the encryption with precision honed over years of dirty wars and black sites. Then I piggyback it on a dormant server ping—something subtle, forgotten, like a whisper in an empty corridor. The type of signal that blends into the background until it doesn’t anymore. It’ll look like white noise—unless you know what you're listening for. And Fitzwallace does. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t just read between the lines; he rewrites them. He’ll see this for what it is: a razor-wrapped invitation. A signal fire dressed as static. And if he’s paying attention, he’ll understand the one thing I didn’t write but made damn clear—I’m not out of the game. I just changed the rules. These boys are playing my game now. I want him curious, yes—but I want him off-balance. They always underestimate the woman holding the leash until it snaps tight around their throat.
As soon as I hit send, the tension in my chest coils tighter. I’ve played this game for over a decade. I’ve run cons that made arms dealers weep and prime ministers sweat. I'm damn good at what I do. But this? This is the first time I’ve played it with my name attached. With my heart... partially unarmored. The worst part isn’t being hunted. It’s knowing the only man who ever saw me—really saw me—is now one of them. Or maybe he always was. Either way, it’s a different type of wound, and I’ve run out of ways to stop the bleeding.
Logan’s eyes haunt me.
So does the way he moved. Controlled, sure. But deliberate—like every motion had been rehearsed and refined in the mirror of his own discipline. He didn’t just approach the table; he owned the surrounding space. Fluid, predatory, graceful. He's always been the type of man who didn’t ask permission to enter a room, just recalibrated its gravity the moment he did.
He came to that table like a man who’d read the final page of the story before I even stepped into the room. Maybe he knew. Maybe Fitz told him. Or maybe he just guessed. But either way, that wasn’t shock in his eyes—it was calculation. I hadn’t expected to see him, but Fitz plays ‘God’ well, and I should’ve expected it.
Logan was contained and composed. But I caught a flicker. The slight delay in his blink. The hitch in his breath, he thought he masked it. He knew. Fitz told him but didn’t bother to mention it to me. Neither one surprises me. What surprised me was that beneath all that steel, something warm still sparked behind those eyes. Recognition. Maybe even pain. It would’ve been easier if he’d looked at me with nothing at all. But that flicker? That was worse. Because it meant I wasn’t the only one still bleeding.
I rise suddenly unsettled, and move to the window. The Monte Carlo skyline glitters like a false promise—too polished, too perfect, like a mask hiding something rotten underneath. Below, the yachts are lined up like trophies, their lights reflecting in the harbor like jewels spilled across black velvet. Penthouse balconies flicker with soft golden glow, champagne glasses catching the light like lures on fishing lines. Every inch choreographed decadence. Opulent. Shallow. Beautiful the way lies are—expensive and dangerous. It's like beauty that cuts deeper the longer you stare. The kind of illusion that seduces even those of us who know better.
Then, in the reflection, I see it: a pinpoint glint—too round, too intentional to be random glass or ambient light.
I freeze.
It’s not the light itself that alarms me—it’s the angle. The placement. High enough to be concealed behind one of the ornamental eaves across the street, but low enough to suggest something mounted manually. That rules out a drone or a random tourist with a camera. No, this is someone who planned, scoped the line of sight, and chose their moment.
A lens. Watching. Fixed. Which means someone knew I’d return tonight. Knew which window I’d stand at. That kind of precision only comes with one of two things: inside intel or long-term surveillance. Neither option makes me feel better.
My skin prickles. Whoever’s out there, they didn’t come to make a statement. They came to gather intel. To study. Maybe even to measure.
I adjust my stance, angle slightly to the left, testing visibility. No motion. No reflection shift. Whoever’s running this feed is patient. Controlled. But they made a mistake: they assumed I wouldn’t look back. And now I know about them.
My mind sketches firing lines and entry points in seconds—three rooftops with clean angles, two balconies with enough depth for a tripod. None of them is good news.
I reach beneath the sill and press a flash pulse emitter into place. The emitter is cool in my palm; the edges worn smooth from years of use, a comfort in the middle of calculated violation. Five-second burst, thirty-minute delay—just long enough to blind the camera and erase the footage without giving away my hand. It won’t trace back to me. It never does.
Then I step back, let the curtain fall into place, and exhale slowly.
They’re watching. And they think they’re in control. But if they knew what I was capable of—what I’ve faced and finished before—they’d run. Fast.
